


Would the Dead Rise Up and Walk?

by Faisalliot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Tom is a zombie, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faisalliot/pseuds/Faisalliot
Summary: Tom was dead, of this he was sure, but he didn’t think it was so bad. Maybe he had been scared of it once (terrified―horrified―goddammit, no, not here―not like this―) but if he had been, he couldn’t recall. He’d learned to live with it. No pun intended.Harry's alive, and Tom's not. But if something were to change, if there was the slightest spark of him left...would the dead rise up and walk?
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69
Collections: Tomarry Reverse Big Bang 2020





	Would the Dead Rise Up and Walk?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zombu7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zombu7/gifts).



> took some inspo from common zombie media lol

There was no ceremony nor was there any form of warning to be found in the way Harry jerked awake. Something like white-hot terror--but not quite that brave--was roiling in his chest, and it was only once Harry managed to wrench himself out of those second hand feelings that he noticed he was drenched in a cold sweat and trembling. He huffed out sharply, gasped in a breath, and wiped at the dampness on his forearms. Bleh, gross.

He had a fleeting, frantic, and somewhat belated thought about zombies, but quickly dismissed it. It was just quiet enough outside that it wasn’t  _ too _ quiet. Gasping in one more breath for good measure, he struggled in his bed sheets, struggled to sit upright, and wound up opting for a half-slouch when he found himself too tangled in his blanket. He spent a short time shaking his head vigorously as if to force the inexplicable fear from his mind. Once he felt he’d done that enough, he scrubbed a sweaty palm over his equally sweaty face, and peered at his dingy old wrist watch. It read 4:37am. 

“Goddammit,” He whispered, and wriggled out of his blankets in favor of drawing his knees up to his chest. “Fuck.” 

What had he been dreaming about? He could recall a few things, but he forgot them just as fast as he remembered them. He got the faintest impression of a drawling, deep voice and milky eyes but..that was all. He shuddered, brushing off the way that low, crooning tone seemed to blanket his ears. It came to mind that maybe it’d be for the best if he just forgot about it―and so he did, promptly and just in time for there to be a knock on the door.

“Harry? You good in there?” Came George’s low murmur from the other side. 

Harry muttered a few choice words under his breath and crawled out of his bed, praying to God that he’d not woken up the whole damn house again. He never knew with these sorts of things; some nights he screamed, and some nights he didn’t. He just knew that it scared the shit out of everyone, and that...wasn’t something they needed right now. Most of everyone’s minds were preoccupied for obvious reasons, what with the current state of affairs (namely, zombies. duh.) but still....Harry couldn’t shake off a small, niggling feeling that he had been warned. Of what, he didn’t know. 

He opened the door to face George, and feigned normalcy. “What’s up?” He whispered.

George blinked down at him slowly, and Harry shoved down the rising guilt in him as it registered just how  _ tired _ George looked. “Just...heard you rustling. Hit the wall. Making sure you’re alright, ‘s all. Are you?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah, mate. Go on, get back to sleep, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

George yawned as if in agreeance, but clasped Harry’s shoulder. “Nah, we have to go out in a bit, right? Morning light is soon, and we’re going on that supply run. Might ‘s well be awake for it. I’ll just go lay on the couch or something. Watch the door.”

Harry’s stomach sank―that was right. The garden was going strong, but they were running out of pesticides and they hadn’t been able to scrounge up enough seeds for comfort this go-around. And they were hoping to find  _ new _ ones. They had to go on a supply run and...face down the dead. Super fun. George seemed to catch the look on his face and gave him a sympathetic sort of smile. This, Harry was actually grateful for: George’s sympathetic smiles were real in this case, because Harry knew he  _ understood _ Harry’s distaste for these runs.

“I know, mate. I get it, it’s...hard. To not see them as the people they were.” And that was the exact problem, wasn’t it? Harry thought of the bodies that littered the streets, and sighed. People. All of them were people. 

George’s voice lowered and his eyes grew far. “Fred doesn’t understand either, remember? Look, I’ll be there with you, and if we can slip away, maybe we can track down some extra shovels. Start digging holes, burying some of them later if we get the chance and the time. Deal?”

Harry’s heart swelled with affection and gratitude. Yes, George  _ understood.  _ Digging holes and burying the corpses would...well, it would be a waste of time and they both knew it, but it’d make them both feel better. It was an act of humanity, of empathy, and while there wasn’t much room for those in a post-apocalyptic world, nothing could stop them from digging out a spot by themselves. And George was willing to do it with him. He nodded, and George meandered into the dimness of the hallway. Harry watched him go, and then slunk back inside of his room. 

Yeah...the whole zombie thing...was hard. Everyone else seemed to have an easy time with disassociating them from the people they once wore, but Harry had never been quite able to do that. Every body that he passed, and every body he had to strike down to stay alive, he couldn’t help but notice the person beneath the monster. An earring here, a tattoo there, a funny scar, a strange nose. The shoes they wore, the outfit, their hair color, their skin. It had been eight,  _ eight _ years of this, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about it. And only George seemed to get it. It made him happy―because at least he wasn’t crazy. If someone else thought like him, it was fine. 

He shut his bedroom door and, catching a faint rustling from the yard below, wandered over to his window. Brushing back the curtains, his heart fell―speak of the devil, and they shall appear. There was a zombie outside of the gate now. A girl, it looked like. She looked fresh too―he wondered how the hell she’d gotten all the way out here. Wondered if whatever had made her was nearby...how many there might be. They were  _ very _ isolated in this house, but there was still the occasional throng that passed by. 

Yes, Harry was sure of it, this girl was new. She was still early in her decay. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were sunken, and there were no exposed bones or organs, except for a strange, dangling left arm. She was clad in dirty, torn jeans and a snug white blouse. Something like devastation rose up in him and he sagged. She’d lasted so long. 

“Who were you?” He mumbled, thoughtless, sad. 

And as if she heard him, as if his words could cross the second floor down to her in the mossy dirt, as if his words meant a thing, she looked up at him. Her eyes were pale and whited out. Like every other corpse. His breath caught. She did not move, but her eyes lingered on him, stared up and into him, and her lips began to move. As if to speak, as if to chew. Her arms strained against the gate. 

And then.

A quiet pop, a hole in her forehead, and she tumbled to the dirt gracelessly, listlessly. Not Dead anymore. A corpse. 

He breathed out. 

_ A person, _ he thought, forcing his eyes away from her fallen body.  _ A person.  _

His heart fluttered strangely in his chest, and he tried not to think of it. 

He did not think of Tom.

He did not think of how sometimes,  _ sometimes _ he swore he could still see him in the corner of his eyes.

* * *

Tom was dead, of this he was sure, but he didn’t think it was so bad. Maybe he had been scared of it once _ (terrified―horrified―goddammit, no, not here―not like this― _ ) but if he had been, he couldn’t recall. He’d learned to live with it. No pun intended. He was lucky that he even remembered his name today, truth be told. Sometimes he didn’t. Hardly any did. They lost them like coins, forgot them like birthdays, and after that was everything else.

He was lucky. He was  _ better _ . He knew he was Tom. 

Sometimes that was enough. And sometimes it wasn’t. Being Dead was strange. Disorienting. No one was sure of anything, and no one had any specific memories. Just strange knowledge of a world long gone. They recognised civilisation. Buildings, cars, a general overview―but they had no personal role in it. No history. They were just there. They just did what they did. The time passed, no one asked questions, and the world did not change. They appeared mindless, and maybe sometimes they were, but they weren't. Tom wasn’t. Tom was  _ better. _ The rusty cogs of cognition still spun in his head, just...slowly. Like something was still there, but barely holding on. He couldn’t fathom what. 

Most of what he knew was the Dead still around him. There had been hundreds of them meandering in this...this  _ mall,  _ for ages, now. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, but he knew it was  _ home. _ They didn't need shelter or warmth, obviously, but the walls and roofs over their heads, the safety...they’d just be wandering in an open field of dust somewhere, and that seemed strangely horrific. To have nothing at all around us, nothing to touch or look at, no hard lines whatsoever, just them and the gaping, endless void of the sky. He imagined that's what being Gone was like. An emptiness. Vast and absolute. He did not like it. 

A lot of them were Gone now. 

He thought they had been here a long time. He still had all his flesh, and he had never seen anyone become Gone from old age. Maybe they lived forever, he didn't know. The future was as blurry to him as the past. But he knew. He had seen. There was a strange, energetic spark inside of them. Something that kept them moving. Something that kept them Dead, and not Gone. And he’d seen it go out, once. The Dead had been someone who could not remember their name. Not even a syllable. And he’d watched them sit, and stare. Stare into the abyss, stare into the nothingness, and he’d. He had seen the spark go out, as if willfully, as if _ wanted,  _ and he had watched them slump. Gone. 

He had stared at their slumped, Gone body for a very, very long time. It had disturbed him greatly. Until he had forgotten. He remembered it sometimes. Sometimes he didn’t. But it never went away truly. 

Tom did not want to be Gone. He did not want the spark to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to go on. He wanted to be better. Better than the rest. 

He wanted to last. 

He was riding the elevator when Luc found him. He rode it sometimes, whenever it moved. Somehow the lights remained. Not all the time. But sometimes. The mall was derelict, but the power still flickered on occasion, maybe flowing from barely living generators stuttering deep underground, or the dams over the hills. Lights flashed and screens blinked, machines jolted into motion. He cherished those moments. The feeling of things coming to life. It made him forget he could ever be Gone. He liked to imagine he was ascending upwards towards something grand he had earned, and descending towards adoring followers. He didn’t know why it mattered, but it was familiar, and it was good. He liked familiar. 

But only Luc was waiting for him at the bottom, standing there strangely as the doors rattled open. Luc could not remember his full name. Just the first syllable. He was lanky, pale. Sagging, papery skin stretched taut over a tall, jutting frame. Clean shaven, long, blond, scraggly hair. Bloodshot eyes. His ragged mouth was oozing black drool.

He pointed in a vague direction and grunted, “City.”

Tom understood. So he nodded, and led the way. Luc was hungry. Tom had to help him. He was the leader. He was better. So they were going out to find food. A hunting party formed around them as they shuffled towards the town. It wasn’t hard to find recruits for these expeditions, even if no one was actually Hungry for that sweet, buzzing succor that sustained them. Focused thought was a rare occurrence here, and everyone that remained from the hundreds that had once wandered the grimey corridors of the mall followed it when it appeared. 

Someone fell from the second floor somewhere to Tom’s left with a wet thump, and dragged themselves across the floor. He wondered why it disgusted him. He ignored it, and marched on. Like a general with an army.

* * *

Harry had to say, out of all of the most utterly humiliating things that had happened to him in his long nineteen years of life, this was really taking the cake.

He could faintly hear Ron and Hermione bantering downstairs, the former clearly losing while other members of their group roamed around the house, idly tidying up and keeping the place livable while others got ready for the supply run. And...here he was, holed up in his room and doing fuckall because, well... Sighing heavily, Harry tried to wiggle his arms, but found all he could really do was flail his hands around a little. Goddammit, goddammit, shitfuck. Stumbling backwards, the back of his calve hit the wood of his bed and he fell into a sitting position on the mattress.  _ Fuck my entire life. _ If Harry could've maneuvered his hand to scrub at his face in exasperation, he would've. Here he was, naked from the waist down save for his boxers, slowly suffocating and losing sensitivity in his arms because of his gunstrap. Unsure of what to do with himself anymore, Harry just sat there for what felt like a long time until he heard someone ascending the stairs adjacent to his room.

He pursed his lips and closed his legs, praying to God that whoever was coming up the stairs wasn’t coming up to get him, because he was sure that he might just actually die of shame if someone walked in on him looking like some sort of demented turtle stuck in his armor with his arms above his head. But, of course, God gave absolutely no fucks and to his utter horror, he heard Ron’s warning whistle. Fucking  _ christ,  _ he was never going to hear the end of this. Ignorant to his inward screams, his doorknob started to turn. The door creaked as it swung open, and Harry desperately wished that in that exact moment, his heart would explode and he died. But that didn’t happen either, so here he was, listening for any sort of sound. Oh gods, he really hope he didn’t have Ginny with him―he’d NEVER live this down if Ginny saw.

“...Harry?” 

Hrrhrhjhgh.

“I’m fine.” Harry groused immediately, trying to sound like he had everything under control when he, in fact, most certainly did not. 

“Are you―” Ron’s voice caught, as if he was trying to hold back a laugh. Fucker. “―Are you sure?”

No, no he was not, but he wasn’t going to tell him that. “Yes,” He bit out. “Go away.”

“Alright, if you’re sure that you’re alright, if you’re positive―” Ah, and there came a giggle-snort. “Show me you can get out of that of your own. Right now.” 

Now, there are many things that Harry could do. He could collect neat rocks, he could cook, he could clean, he could bludgeon zombies to death with tree branches, he could successfully watch a group of fellow teenagers and not let any of them die, etc etc...but, wrestling his way out of his own trap? Nope. Could not do that.

But he was going to try anyway because Harry knew and accepted that while he was kind of a dumbass, he was also a dumbass that at least made an effort to appear otherwise. And thus, he attempted to get out of his gun strap vest on his own, which ultimately resulted in him just waving his arms around vigorously like a particularly angry snake that was in the midst of a rave before he ended up flopping backwards on his bed in defeat after a solid thirty seconds of struggling. 

Mmm, yes. Truly a dignified, refined leader, he was. 

“Harry, we’ve been over this, you  _ cannot _ put that thing on without unzipping it.” Ron said, voice sounding closer. “What would you do if the house got overrun by zombies right now, huh?”

“Die, I guess.” Harry muttered contritely, making a face when Ron pulled the vest over his head for him and fought a grin. “It’s so much  _ work _ to unzip it.”

Ron bopped him on the head, and unzipped the vest for him. “Quit your moaning and just get it on. We’re dipping out in five more minutes, tops.”

Harry paused in the midst of rubbing out the numbness in his arms. Oh dear God, had he really been stuck that long? “Can _ not _ believe you guys still think I’m your leader.” He mumbled after a minute, staring embarrassedly down at the floor. Christ. 

Five minutes later, sure enough, they were prepped to go. Hermione, Remus, Neville, Molly, Arthur, and Luna were staying behind―Sirius, Harry, Fred, George, and Ron were going out. The Goof Troop, and at the moment, the half of the group that was in the best health. The humidity outside was nearly unbearable. The sticky air was hardly permeable enough to trudge through, and it seemed to condense on Harry’s skin as a film of mist that made him want to scream. His lips curled as he stomped through the mud and tried to ignore the dull ache already starting to thump in his skull. Damn the rainy season, and damn the rains for coming at this inopportune time. 

They clambered into the car, and rolled past the girl that had fallen by their hands just hours before. Her eyes stared upwards, white. Harry’s skin crawled, and he wiped the dew off of his forehead for the umpteenth time. He did not look back at her. As they rolled towards the town, Ron behind the wheel and George’s thigh pressed into his, Harry hoped they wouldn’t run into too much trouble. 

And then immediately hoped that he hadn’t jinxed himself.

* * *

The town where they did their hunting was conveniently close.

Tom was sure they must’ve arrived around noon, quickly under his good lead, since the sun was still high in the sky. They scoured the town, looking for flesh, trying to satiate that strange... _ hunger.  _ Hunger was a loose word, really―it wasn’t in their stomachs―but it everywhere equally, a sinking, sagging sensation, as if their cells were deflating. And sometimes they deflated all the way, and they were Gone. Just as the once-Dead man Tom had watched once, the transition was undramatic. They just slowed down, then stopped, and after a while they were Gone, spark let go of. Willfully. Quietly. They were doing it more now. No more prey to keep the spark. No more reason to move. 

Perhaps this was where the world really ended. Perhaps they would not find food. Perhaps Tom would lead the group forever. And they would be Gone. One by one. And the world would stop. Because the cities they wandered through were as rotten as they were. Buildings collapsed, rusted cars clogged the streets. Most glass was shattered, and the wind drifted through the hollow high-rises, moaning like an animal left to die. 

But then, they smelled it. The wafting, buzzing stench of the living. It was not the heady waft of sweat and skin, but the effervescence of life, like lightning and mint. Tom did not smell it in his nose. It hit him deeper inside, near his brain, or what was left of it. So he grunted, gestured, and they converged on a building, and crashed their way inside. 

It would not be enough, Tom knew this. He knew this in a strange, helpless way. Iit would never be enough, and it was horrible because doing this―this barbaric act was simple but senseless, and because it was the only thing that kept him walking, he did it. He did not enjoy it. He did not know what eating someone accomplished. He did not know what he meant. All that he knew was that this was a powerless process, that it was maddening, and that something inside of him said that it felt like nothing. Deep inside him, in some dark and cobwebbed chamber, Tom felt something twitch.

He ignored it. It was time to feed.

He let some Dead go ahead of them, and watched them stumble into the pale daylight at the end of the aisle. Yes, he could feel it. He could feel the electricity in his limbs waning, fading, and it  _ terrified _ him. Tom did not want to be Gone.. He could see relentless visions of blood in his mind, that brilliant, riveting scarlet, flowing through bright pink tissues in intricate webs and threads, pulsing and vibrating like a web. He wondered where the spider was, and looked ahead.

He pressed onwards, movement growing frantic. 

He was _ hungry.  _ He did not want to be  _ Gone.  _

Tom drooled, hated it, and snapped his teeth. He grew more and more agitated by the second, and unknown rage rising within him, and he crashed through the revolving door and rushed down the dark aisles. It was hard to navigate through the debris and it was harder still to walk, but the scent of life was overpowering, and―and  _ familiar _ . The darkness of the building was pulsing with gunfire somewhere in the background, and maybe somewhere inside he was afraid that a bullet would hit home in him, but he no longer cared. He  _ needed _ the scent,  _ needed _ the energy,  _ needed _ to feed. 

Something was  _ familiar,  _ and Tom was running to it. 

And that was when Tom saw him.

The stench of life, the tang...was from  _ one _ person. 

Someone, Tom thought frantically, that he  _ knew. _

He stopped dead. He could feel the tile under his shoes. He could hear the gunshots. He looked around, dizzy and reeling. He had never had a thought so deep, a truth so integrally, so  _ clearly _ known, but Tom  _ knew _ this person. 

This was  _ Harry. _

The sting of tears burned in his eyes, but his ducts no longer had fluid. A feeling raged in his chest, unquenched like a ravenous, writhing hurt. For the first time, he felt pain and hated it even more than he had before. He heard him scream. Harry,  _ his _ Harry. He was here, he was older, his baby fat had melted away to reveal sharper lines and finer poise, and he was on the ground. A Dead person, a woman that Tom did not know, was hovering over him, and he was batting her away with a shovel, and there was blood running down his face. He looked―he looked  _ hurt.  _

The blood did not smell good. 

He felt disorientated, unsure of where or who he was, but―Tom was running, now, faster than he ever had before, shoving the Dead woman aside, and  _ snarling,  _ “MINE!” and then he had her head in his hands, and he was―he was  _ slamming it  _ into the ground, until the grayness in her head was strewn across the floor―until she stopped gurgling―until she was Gone―Gone―Gone―

Tom’s body was screaming, and maybe he was shaking. 

He turned. Harry was still there. Eyes blown wide, slumping down bonelessly, face pale, shovel held in slack grip. Blood dripped on the tile. Tom approached him. He cowered, heaving for breath, something Tom did not need, and his instincts started to reassert themselves. The urge to rip and tear surged into his arms and jaw. But then he made a noise, a tiny, punched out noise, a whisper. 

“Tom…”

Something inside of Tom moved, a feeble moth struggling against a web. 

“Oh, Tom...I’m sorry…God, I’m so....” His eyes were slipping shut, and the shovel clattered to the ground from clammy, shaking fingers.

Tom let out a gentle, whinging moan and inched towards Harry― _ his _ Harry―trying to force kindness into his dull expression. 

And Harry surged downwards, and  _ bit _ him.

For a moment, Tom was frozen, uncomprehending.

Then his body  _ lit up.  _ As if his teeth were jumper cables, as if Harry could breathe his own life into Tom, as if he could  _ live _ again, Tom was  _ filled _ with pure, intoxicating, unfathomable  _ life.  _

“Har . . . ry,” He said, numb.

It rolled off his tongue like honeydew. His eyes went wide. He froze.

“Harry,” He said again, almost whimpering. 

Every inch, every vein, every neuron was  _ screaming,  _ and something inside of Tom was  _ thrashing.  _ Memories flitted across his mind rapid-fire. Tom was murmuring into his hair on the back patio, watching the fish swirl lazily in the pond. He could feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of his neck. Harry shut his eyes―His thumb slid down Harry’s shoulder, soothing the dry skin as though he was precious. Not fragile. Never fragile―They were in the kitchen, side by side at the stove and speaking in low, lilting murmurs. He could feel his hand creeping along his waist, not to fondle, but to hold. Just to hold― 

And then they were in a warehouse, laughing at shitty graffiti and kissing. He could taste smoke on his lips―They were in the pond, soaking in the dewey, lukewarm wet. The sun bore down on them but Tom didn’t mind. Harry’s fingers felt so very nice in his hair―Tom’s hand was nothing more than a silhouette in the night sky, backlit by the faint starlight. “Point me,” he said, and Harry craned his neck to look from his angle. He shifted Tom’s hand ever so slightly―He held Harry’s hand, ignoring the way his eyes itched with fatigue―Tom groaned, and Harry iced his forehead again. “This sucks,” he slurred, and Harry gave him a grimace of a smile―

―He could feel something wet rolling down his temple, and he was so dizzy. He was laying sideways, and his vision was blurry. And Harry was there, touching him, yelling―and then― 

Slowly, Tom reached his free hand into the head-wound of a Dead woman he had killed, and collected a palmful of black, lifeless blood. Slowly, with gentle movements, he smeared it on Harry’s face, down his neck and onto his clothes. Then he took his hand and slowly, unthinkingly, he pulled him to his feet. Harry swayed dangerously, and Tom held on to him. It was quiet, now. Without a word, Tom pulled Harry towards the door in the back, in a daze, full of strange and kaleidoscopic thoughts. Harry held onto his hand, limp, staring at the side of his face with wide eyes, trembling lips.

Tom pushed Harry outside, and stared.

Drank him in.

This was Harry. Harry was his. He was Harry’s. This was his identity. 

“Go...home.” Tom forced out slowly. 

It felt like the words were trying to kill him. It hurt so badly. His eyes pricked again. Something in his chest throbbed once more. But Harry. Harry did not belong here. Harry had to  _ live. _

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. 

“I...llllove…….you.” Tom said.

And closed the door. 

A tear rolled down his face, and he knew nothing again.

* * *

Harry’s mind was strangely blank as he stumbled home. His head still bled sluggishly, and he felt so ill, and he... _ Tom… _

He tried not to think of it. He put one foot ahead of him. Right foot. Left foot. Keep going. Do not look back. Do not run. Go home. Get help. One foot. Two foot. As he walked, he blundered over a tree root just in time for a huge wave of dizziness to wash over him. Black spots danced in his vision and he stumbled forward, roughly clutching on to a nearby tree trunk for dear life. He breathed deeply and slowly, and he swallowed down the urge to vomit for the fourth time, sliding down the tree. 

_ 'C'mon, Harry. Pull yourself together...'  _ He thought, leaning the back of his bleeding head on the bark of the tree. He could feel mud caking his ass and grimaced. That'd be a bitch to wash off after it dried, and now everyone would be able to tell he'd fallen over on his way back to the manor. That would be embarrassing. He hoped he wouldn’t be yelled at. For getting lost. They must think he was dead. It would make sense. It would be a good surprise.

He got up. He walked. He tried not to fall. 

Soon enough, his ears picked up the sounds of a gurgling river nearby and relief washed over him. That meant he was close to home. All he needed to do was follow the direction it flowed up to the bridge in front of the driveway, and then he could get through the gate, and get help and get clean. He was covered in zombie ook―he did not think about how it had gotten there, he did not―and wanted it  _ off. _

And then, a thought occurred to him. Surely a dip in the river to wash it off wouldn't kill him. It'd cool him off and wash off the stickiness of the humidity for a little bit, and get off all the dead people germs. This was a  _ good _ idea. All he'd get is wet. So, river. He had to get into the river. Easier said than done. He stumbled off towards the source of gurgling water, nearly falling over in relief when it came into sight. He slipped and slid on the especially muddy river bank―thanks, rain―towards the water. He squawked in the most undignified way possible as he lost his footing, falling ass over head into the mud. Well, more specifically, he fell flat on his back, which was honestly no better. 

The mud squelched comically as he landed, prompting a short laugh out of him. Oh, this sucked. He laid there in the mud for a solid minute, briefly considering making a mud angel. He sat upright slowly, frowning at the mud that was slathered from his legs to the back of his head, and instead of standing back up, Harry just slid his way towards the river, figuring he was covered in mud anyway. There was no point in standing, and no one was here to laugh at him. At least, he  _ really _ hoped. Zombies were all but gone now, but they still lingered. Like the one that had nearly killed him, he thought with a grimace. 

Eight years. Eight years of this shit, almost finished, almost seen through, and he’d nearly been done in over shovels. Ugh.

As soon as the water hit him, he hissed through his teeth. Fuck, that was cold. He hung out in the river, not thinking about much for what felt like a very long time. He lifted his arms up and brushed as much mud and zombie ook as he could off of himself, letting his arms fall down limply on occasion when it got too hard to keep them upright. As he washed the mud off the back of his head, he avoided the bump he’d gotten, and was ginger with the cut on the crown of his head. Asshole zombies.

He quickly got used to the cold water, and once he felt he was clean enough, Harry let the current take him towards the house, keeping his ears tuned for any sounds. Several times on the journey he stopped, but it was just animals (dinner, he thoughts) or reeds in the water. He kept an eye on the water―no corpses in it. That was good. He focused on the feeling of the cold water softly running over him, nearly groaning at the pleasant feeling, and he must’ve closed his eyes, because the next thing he knew, he was being  _ jolted _ the fuck awake by a frantic, sobbing―

“OH MY GOD,  _ HARRY!” _

And then, 

"Oi! You dead!?"

What the fuck kind of question was that? Why would you ask someone if they were dead? What, did they expect a corpse to say some shit like "Yeah man, I'm dead as fuck." or something? (He did not think about how Tom had  _ talked _ to him.) He cracked open his eyes and sucked in a breath harshly. Holy shit, the sky had not been that dark earlier! He was shivering. When had he started shivering? He looked around for the source of the voice, and found Hermione and Ron peering down at him from the bridge. 

"Uh..." He wasn't expecting his voice to sound as scratchy as it did. "I'm fine."

“WHAT DO YOU  _ MEAN―! YOU’RE―!?”  _ Hermione looked three seconds away from an aneurism. 

Ron looked incredibly pale up above, but his mouth was stretched into a wide, desperate grin. “Not bit?”

Harry shook his head quickly―he knew damn well he wasn’t. “All good. Got knocked on the head, though. Hurts.”

Hermione was  _ heaving _ up there. “Harry, can you get out of the water?!”

"...Maybe?" Harry found his legs to be very stiff. "I dunno if I can get out of here, actually."

"What the fuck―how long have you been in there, mate?" Ron asked, trotting towards the side of the bridge and sliding down a river bank.

"I have...no idea. I think I might've dozed off." Harry admitted, wiggling his toes in his boots.

Okay, at least he hadn't managed to freeze himself.

Ron grabbed his arm, hauling him up. "Holy shit, you feel like ice. How'd you manage to not drown yourself?"

"I...divine intervention?" Harry supplied cluelessly.

In truth, he had no idea. God, how embarrassing would it have been for him to have died by drowning in a river because he fell asleep?

Ron shook his head, and then tugged him into a strong, strangling hug that Hermione quickly joined. Harry huffed, but hugged back. “I’m  _ wet, _ ” He said, leaning into Ron’s warmth. 

“And not dead.” Ron muttered tightly into his sopping hair. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

He wandered slowly towards the house, feeling more tired by every step. His head spun and he frequently found himself having to lean against Ron or Hermione to stop himself from falling over. He berated himself all the while for dozing off in the river. What in the name of God had he been thinking? He was  _ beyond _ lucky his rendezvous in the river hadn’t killed him. He grimaced; there was no point in lying to himself; he was doing poorly before, but the long-term submersion was not only  _ incredibly _ dangerous, but had probably worsened his condition. He felt  _ sick _ now (and biting Tom―honestly,  _ biting!― _ had likely not helped at all. Gross.  _ Dead person germs _ , he thought with a pang) and by the time they reached the front door, he felt very winded and he was shivering violently. 

A rush of warm air hit him as Ron shoved open the door, and Harry nearly collapsed in relief, gulping down the smell of home. It was blessedly less humid inside, and he leaned against the jagged, plaster wall, sighing. He was home. He only had a few more minutes of walking and some staircases to brave and then he could sit down in his bed. His head spun sickeningly and he swayed dangerously towards the left, his breaths coming out in short pants.

_ 'Come on, you can do it. Let's go.' _ Harry pushed himself off the wall and stumbled towards the stairs, feeling worse with every step. For the second time that day, black spots swirled in his eyes. He choked back in a distressed sob, feeling humiliated that he actually wanted to cry. The day had just been so  _ long _ and...Tom… 

_ 'Almost there...'  _ Gods, he was so cold. He could hardly breathe. He nearly cried in relief as he reached the banister, which was super embarrassing to admit to himself.  _ 'A few more steps.'  _ Someone was yelling at him. His head throbbed.

"Harry!"

He tilted his head up. And there stood Ginny. Her hand was on her hip and her long, red braid swayed behind her.

"Where have you _ been!?  _ We've been tearing up the city looking for your stupid ass! Everyone’s been freaking out!”

Holy shit, her yelling felt like fireballs were going off directly next to his ears. As he crept closer, he saw the pissed look melt off her face in an instant, quickly replaced with concern.

"Hey, whoa, whoa. You alright? You look like shit."

Even Harry could admit that 'yes' was not the answer here. "N-No…" He gasped out, falling forward before he could stop himself.

He expected to fall over right in front of her, but to his surprise she lurched forward and caught him before he could faceplant. She supported him from under his forearms and pulled him towards her. 

"Breathe, man. What's wrong? What hurts?" She was looking up at Ron and Hermione now, who were flanked behind him and helping him stay upright too. “You’re not―you’re  _ not _ bit.”

Harry shook his head. “No, positive.”

“It’s his head,” Hermione murmured behind him, and her hand rooted through his hair before it suddenly froze. “I―oh my god.”

It was very quiet for a moment.  _ Too _ quiet. 

“Harry, holy  _ shit.”  _ Ron said, and his grip got tenser. “Holy  _ shit― _ hold on, Ginny,  _ get mom now.” _

Harry wasn’t too concerned with this sudden alarm in the air―his head felt like someone had shoved it full of cotton and was beating it with a warhammer. He could feel that his legs were about to give out. Everything felt so heavy. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. His face was cold.

"I…"

“Talk to me, Harry." Hermione said quickly. Somehow they had started walking. “Tell me anything just―”

"I…" He gasped out, feeling himself shaking. "I think I'm gonna pass out."

And just like that, his eyes dropped closed and his legs gave out from beneath him. He distantly heard Ron curse rather loudly before he supported the rest of his weight, not letting him fall. He was grateful for that; the ground was not soft. He felt the sensation of being picked up like a bride and felt Ron running, slamming open the doors to the kitchen with a terrible bang.

And he knew no more.

* * *

Tom woke up.

He was breathing.

His heart was beating.

“Harry,” He said. 


End file.
